Yet Another Mental Thing
by Hedo
Summary: Mort begins to feel dizzy, tired, and ill while writing a scifi novel about male pregnancy. Is he pregnant? Or is it just his imagination? MPREG, whether real or imagined...well, I'll leave that up to you.
1. A Novel Idea

_If Mr. Mort Rainey's "incident" is any indication, writer's block can literally drive one insane. It will lead us to put ourselves at risk in order to find inspiration._

_The murders that Mr. Rainey committed were probably out of frustration. And rather understandable frustration. His wife had been cheating on him even though he was doing his best to give her his time and affection when he wasn't writing a book. But maybe it was that she valued companionship more than she valued his gift. The nerve of her._

"No...no...it's terrible..." Mort mumbled, flicking his wrist and executing the ctrl+a command, then tapping hesitantly on the 'delete' key. He looked over at his 'secret window' and curled his fingers to loosen them out again. He had been sitting there writing it all day long...writing, deleting, writing...it was getting tedious...irritating.

"I need to get a life." he muttered to himself, rubbing away a headache. He couldn't even go into town at this point, and was basically living off of the garden in his backyard. Hardly a healthy diet.

_Would things have been different if we hadn't lost the baby?_

The quote appeared in his word processor, and he was totally unaware of having typed it. The thought stirred strange feelings in him...it made him feel dizzy...queasy...and worst of all, it reminded him of his wife-- or, rather, **ex**-wife. She made a better fertilizer than a spouse, when he thought about it. Mort's mouth twitched and he cast a glance at the kitchen downstairs.

"Right...food..." he mumbled to himself, standing up and thumping down the stairs. It seemed like he didn't even have the energy to lift his feet. Damn.

He rummaged in his fridge for a soda, and realized he was out of them.

"God dammit..." he mumbled, looking for something else to eat. His fridge was **empty**. He growled to himself about it and went back upstairs to get a pair of socks. He'd have to go in to town to get some food.

----

He pulled up to the mini mart and slammed the door to his truck. He was ticked off, to be sure, but for some reason there was a bit of euphoria. He thought about this, trying to put it into words (because maybe he could write about this) and started pulling food off the racks. He basically got everything; it was what he needed, after all.

----

After stocking the fridge and heading back to his laptop, he got another idea. What about a science fiction? It seemed like a great idea, because all he had to think of were some characters with strange names and customs, a scientifically fictional setting, and an equally outlandish plot.

Then he hit the nail on the head: male pregnancy. Not many authors wrote about that, now did they? At least not seriously outside of fanfiction. Mort pondered for a moment. Was he really willing to be a method writer(1) this time around? Because the last time he did that whole method writing thing, he had committed a double-homocide. But at least he'd gotten away with it. But was he seriously willing to take on the task of a psychosomatic pregnancy? Maybe...

"That'd be interesting..." he said to no one, and began typing.

--

The first chapter took him some time to write, because he had to think of a reason for this happening and that happening...but that was the hard part about all first chapters, wasn't it? He looked it over quietly:

_It was not that Weldon_(2)_ **wanted** to be female. Quite the opposite. He cringed at the thought of dealing with those 'womanly' things, like menstruation and childbirth. The way Weldon really felt about women was...the fact was that he pitied and hated the poor things with a passion._

_If only there was some way to help them, and yet make them realize that they don't have the right to cause the many guilt trips that they do._

_Weldon would take away the only thing women held over his head. He would take away childbearing._

Mort shrugged. It was a start, and one must always start somewhere. He cast a glance at the corner of his computer screen, at the clock. It was 6 in the morning. Time for him to get some sleep.

Method writing is kinda like method acting, and it really helps you keep the characters engaging and endearing. For example: while I was writing "Little Wonka", I watched "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" about 50 times and imitated Willy Wonka's behavior. While I was writing "Junior Scissorhands", I sat in my room wearing my scissorhands from Halloween and trying to act 'fatherly'. While writing "Bitty Bodders" (which I'm currently re-writing), I watched "Sleepy Hollow" over and over and started acting like Ichabod Crane (and I'm doing that again!).

A different Weldon from the Weldon you knew in "Little Wonka"...Weldon is still fashioned after myself, but...in a world where men are perfectly capable of bearing children, women are...obsolete. Maybe I've been writing MPREG for a little too long?


	2. Needles and News

Mort woke up the next morning with a sore back.

"What the fuck?" he mumbled to himself as he pulled on his tattered robe and slippers. He felt hungry. Really hungry. He padded over to his fridge to see if anything looked good this morning. For some odd reason he had the desire to mix corn and chocolate.

"What the fuck?" he asked himself again, making the bizarre breakfast anyway. It tasted pretty darn good, to be truthful. Mort thumped up the stairs to his laptop to learn that it was nearly 1 in the afternoon. Oh well. He started getting back to his sci-fi novel and mumbling it to himself aloud.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to vomit. He rushed to the window, since the closest bathroom was downstairs and too far away, and retched for a few minutes.

"What...the...FUCK!" he shouted to nobody. "What the fuck is wrong with me? Cause it better go away fast, it's not like I can go to a goddamn doctor or anything!" Mort held his throbbing dizzy head.

"Dammit dammit dammit dammit!" what a nasty mood he was in today. Maybe he should relax his boundaries a little and see a doctor anyway.

--

"How long has this been going on?"

"'Bout a month..." Mort's hands twitched with the urge to fold over one another. _Ignore it, Mort, old pal..._ the novelist said to himself.

"So you're experiencing nausea, backache, dizzy spells and you feel tired during the day?" the doctor asked him. She seemed thoroughly confused. "Odd..." Mort's hands twitched again. _I said ignore it!_ He reminded himself.

"Um, yeah, can you...gee, I dunno, help me out with that or something? It's driving me crazy. I've passed out in my kitchen frickin' twice!"

"Aaaand mood swings..." the doctor mumbled, writing something down. "I think I'll be taking a blood sample."

"Why?" Mort asked. He gulped at the thought of a needle piercing his skin. He hated needles.

"Because this may be an odd case of...well...never mind. I'll explain later." The doctor stammered. She quickly did her job and gave Mort a nod to say he could go home now. Mort rubbed his sore arm as he shuffled away.

----

He rolled over frustratedly to answer the phone. He'd been having a nice dream, too...

"Hullo?" he mumbled.

"Hello. This is Dr. Freelan, calling about the results of your blood test..."

"What about 'em?" Mort didn't bother hiding his sleepiness or his frustration. The nerve of his doctor calling him in the middle of the day. Didn't she know he was practically nocturnal?

"Well...this may seem odd, but..." there was a shuffling of papers and the clicking of a clipboard in the background "...we found high levels of hCG and progesterone and..."

"You found high levels of **what​**?"

"HCG and progesterone. Pregnancy hormones." Mort furrowed his brow in confusion.

"But...I'm a guy."

"Well there have been cases where men experience hormonal changes that cause behavior that mimics symptoms of pregnancy...but, uh...I'm afraid this is the real deal."

"Don't use the word 'afraid'. It makes the situation seem bad." Mort snapped. He hated when people manipulated the English language for the worse. The **nerve** of them.

"Well...Mr. Rainey, it seems that you will become a father...um...mother...I-uh-I mean...p-parent in 7 or 8 months."

"Holy shit," Mort said. He slowly hung up as Dr. Freelan blurted "I beg your pardon!".

"I'm gonna be a daddy...or...mommy..." he looked down at his mostly-flat stomach, realizing his left hand had been resting there the entire time. Did he unconsciously put it there when he was asleep? Probably... "You're gonna have a psychotic novelist for a daddy, kid! Innit great?" His moment of euphoria was interrupted by the phone ringing again.

"Yeah?"

"It seems we were disconnected..." Dr. Freelan said, trying ineffectively to hide her frustration.

"Yeah. That happens. What's up?"

"You, Mr. Rainey, are a month-and-a-half pregnant, and you have an appointment in two weeks. I expect you to have gained at least 4 pounds since the last time I weighed you in 6 weeks. You're already underweight and staying that way isn't good for either one of you. Get eating."

"Well okay then. But all I have is ramen noodles and KFC."

"That works just fine for now, Mr. Rainey." Dr. Freelan snapped as she hung up.

"So I'm not dreaming..." Mort rubbed his tender stomach. "...Wow."


End file.
